The Legendary Charlie Weasley
by Llyn Moriath
Summary: “Gryffindor hadn’t won the Quidditch Cup since the legendary Charlie Weasley had
1. Default Chapter

**The Legendary Charlie Weasley**

**Part One:**

**Visions of Snitches**

~  *  ~

            "I need you to keep us more than forty points up, all right? Or else I can't go for the Snitch because we'll win the match but lose the Cup. You hear me? You _must_ keep us _more _than forty -"

            "WE KNOW, CHARLIE!" Mickey yelled.

            Charlie glowered. "Listen here, you lot," he said fiercely. "This is no time to be getting cocky. We can_not_ afford to underestimate our opponent. Slytherin's put together a strong side this year! We _must_ win!" 

            "Charlie," the three Gryffindor Chasers chorused. "We. Know."

            It was late afternoon. Orange light slanted through the arched windows of the crowded Gryffindor common room, illuminating the fond exasperation on the faces of Shea Doherty, Paddy Quinn, and Fiona "Mickey" McBroome. All three were flushed from a particularly windy practice session and still in their scarlet Quidditch robes.

            "Listen, mate," Shea said, looking at Charlie's popping eyes with some alarm. "You need to relax. Really. The match isn't for three more days."

            Charlie blinked and stared at them for a moment with unfocused eyes. Then he gave a moan and sank back into a squashy armchair with his face in his hands.

            "I know," he said, his voice muffled. "I'm sorry. I just keep thinking of all the things that could go wrong . . ."

            "Charlie." Mickey's voice was sharp. "Have you slept at _all_ in the last forty-eight hours?"

            Charlie heaved a sigh and looked up at her. She had her arms crossed and was watching him through narrowed eyes.

            "No," he admitted.

            "I thought so. Look, obsessing isn't going to do us any good if our Seeker falls asleep on his broom on Saturday."

            "I'm not about to fall --" Charlie began indignantly.

            Paddy cut him off swiftly. "Get your arse into bed, Weasley," he ordered.

            "But . . ." Charlie objected feebly.

            "Shut it, Captain," Mickey said authoritatively, tossing back her wild mane of brown curls. "Shea, Paddy, you have my permission to drag him if he doesn't cooperate."

            Charlie could tell she was serious, but he rallied one last time.

            "I have homework!" he protested, a little half-heartedly. Bed actually sounded rather good, now that they mentioned it. 

            "Like hell you've got homework," Paddy scoffed. "The holidays just ended. It can wait. Out with you, or I'll get Drake," he added threateningly.

            Charlie had to smile. Drake Donnelly was a Gryffindor Beater who could probably take on Hagrid in a wrestling match and pull out a draw. He conceded defeat.

            "Okay, okay," he muttered. "I'm going. Happy?"

            "Yeah," Shea said cheerfully. "Now sod off, Weasley. We'll bring you some dinner if you're still conscious later." He clapped Charlie on the back. "I know it's probably useless to say so, but try not to dream about Quidditch. Get your mind off it for a while."

            "Thanks," said Charlie dryly. "I'll do that."

            "Well, I'm off," Paddy said brightly. "Think I'll head off to a dark closet somewhere -- care to join me, Mickey?" He waggled his eyebrows at her suggestively.

            She rolled her eyes with a bit of a grin and dug an elbow into his ribs, and he withdrew with an "Oof!" the arm that had been snaking across her shoulders as he spoke.

            Charlie trudged up the spiral stair slowly, carrying his pride and joy, his Cleansweep Five, over his shoulder. He entered the circular seventh-year dormitory, placed his broomstick reverently in his trunk, collapsed on his four-poster, and stared at the ceiling.

            Charlie had been on the Gryffindor House Quidditch team since his second year, beginning as a reserve Seeker. Before the year was out, however, the Captain had granted him the first-string spot over a fifth-year veteran who had never really forgiven him. He'd never been quite as brilliant at his studies as Bill had; the only subject in which he really excelled was Care of Magical Creatures with Professor Kettleburn. He shared Hagrid's love of fantastic beasts, and the bigger the better. He could never quite understand how Bill found Ancient Runes and Arithmancy so fascinating; to Charlie, they were a load of abstract nonsense he could never quite wrap his brain around. He had to be able to see and touch what he was studying for it to make sense. Quidditch made a lot of sense. He had eaten, slept, and breathed it since he was old enough to understand the rules.

            And now he was Captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team. He'd waited years for the honor, for all the older players to graduate, and now, in his final year at Hogwarts, it was finally his. He hated to admit it even to himself, but he was terrified. Absolutely scream-your-guts-out terrified. With every passing second he could feel his self-control slipping further away. He couldn't shake the ominous feeling that when the whistle blew on Saturday he might just pass out.

            Gryffindor's name had been on the coveted Cup for the last four years, and if it was Slytherin's this year, Charlie was going to dive himself down to the bottom of the lake. 

            He hadn't realized it was so much pressure, being Captain. If they lost . . . If he let everyone down . . .

            But he shouldn't worry, he told himself. His team was close-knit and confident, a small army of smart players that wasn't afraid to try something absolutely crazy if the situation called for it. They'd worked damn hard the last few months, and he was fiercely proud of them. They were quite a group.

            Although he was a fifth-year, this was only Drake's second year on the team. A shy Muggle-born student, he'd come out for the team only when Charlie's old Captain, Chester Martin, had literally dragged him onto the pitch, thrust a club into his hand, and set him loose on a pair of Bludgers. He was such a natural and his size so intimidating that he was one of Gryffindor's deadliest weapons.

            Wes Payton was the other Beater. The physical contrast between Wes and Drake could hardly have been greater; Drake was taller than Wes by a head, with great muscular arms, while Wes, a fourth-year, was lean and wiry but deceptively powerful. His aim was absolutely deadly.

            Emma Chapman, the Keeper, was petite and blond, but opposing teams had quickly learned not to underestimate her because of her size. She was quick and agile and would literally do anything to stop the other team from scoring. Charlie grinned to himself as he thought back to a particularly memorable game last year in which she had actually jumped off her broom to stop the Quaffle. Luckily, a few teachers had been sitting fairly close by and they'd been able to slow her down enough that she'd escaped with just a sprained ankle. 

            And as for Shea, Paddy, and Mickey, well, they were the strongest Chaser threesome Hogwarts had seen in a long time. They knew each other inside and out and could practically read each other's thoughts, but it was a wonder they got anything done at practice, with Mickey having to spend half her time fending Paddy off. Charlie scowled. Sometimes that bothered him more than he cared to admit. Paddy had females coming out his ears. Why did he have to go chasing Mickey? Not that it really made much difference; she was having none of it. In fact, it had become sort of a game between the two of them. Innocent fun. Nothing to get worked up about.

            "Charlie?"

            He came to with a jolt, realizing that he'd been drifting off to sleep. "What?" he mumbled rather thickly.

            The dormitory door opened and a small, red-headed figure with horn-rimmed glasses poked his head in. Charlie groaned.

            "Not now, Perce, I'm trying to sleep."

            Percy's face fell. "Oh," he said dejectedly, and closed the door slowly.

            Charlie frowned as his big brother instincts kicked in, telling him something wasn't quite right. Was that a quiver he'd heard in Percy's voice? Was that a sniffle he heard now from behind the door?

            "Percy?"

            The door opened again immediately. "Yes?" Percy said hopefully.

            Charlie sighed. "C'mere. What's the matter?"

            Percy pressed his mouth into a trembling line, an eleven-year-old boy struggling desperately not to give in to the ultimate humiliation of crying. 

            "In . . .  in . . ." he choked out. "I mean . . ."

            He lost the battle. His face crumpled and tears trickled down his cheeks as he flung himself onto the bed beside Charlie and sobbed.

            Charlie put a comforting arm around his brother's scrawny, shaking shoulders. "Easy, Perce. What happened?"

            "T-today, in Double Transfiguration-"

            "Ah," Charlie said with a frown. "Say no more. Which one of the little maggots was it this time?"

            "Cecil Avery and Eben Marston," Percy wailed, dashing away angry tears. "They were making fun of me because I read the next chapter ahead of time, the one that talks about transfiguring mice into snuffboxes, and then they made fun of my robes because they're secondhand, and they said Dad can't earn enough to support us and he ought to snap his wand in half and live as a Muggle, if he loves them so much, and . . ."

            Charlie was seeing red. Who the hell did these kids think they were, anyway? Just because a kid was smarter than them and wore glasses, they thought that gave them the right to make his life a living hell. It never ceased to amaze him how cruel children could be. He'd dealt with his share of unpleasantness in his first few years at Hogwarts -- still did, as a matter of fact -- but he'd never had to endure what Percy did.

            ". . . so then I told Professor McGonagall that the quills they were sucking on were sugar quills and she got mad and took ten points from Slytherin apiece."

            Charlie winced. "Oh, now, maybe that wasn't such a good move, Perce. No one likes a snitch -- well, except for the golden kind," he amended with a grin.

            "They deserved it," Percy said defiantly. "Sugar quills aren't allowed in class -- _and_ Eben pulled Penny Clearwater's braids yesterday in Flying and made her cry, so I'm _glad_ I told. I'd do it again, too. But then after I left class they hexed me from behind -- Leg-Locker Curse."

            "Those little . . ." Charlie growled.

            "And then," Percy said, his tears beginning to fall faster, "they took my bag and poured ink all over my books, and I think they stole my Charms homework because it wasn't there when it was time to turn it in, and it's the first time I've _ever_ missed handing in a homework assignment, and now Professor Flitwick hates me, and I won't get to be a prefect and take points off Eben and Cecil!" His voice rose passionately as he spoke and he finished with a loud wail.

            Charlie's eyes blazed. Weasley pride had been insulted. This could not be borne.

            "Percy," he said grimly, " you can tell those little pricks that the next time they hex you, make fun of you, or bother you in any way, your big brother Charlie is going to personally hunt them down and bang their miserable little heads together. Okay?"

            Percy lit up. "Really?" he said, giving a little hiccoughing laugh of delight.

            "Really."

            Percy beamed up at him, his freckled face red and splotchy with tears. "Thanks, Charlie!"

            "No problem whatsoever. And trust me, Professor Flitwick does not hate you. It's just one homework assignment." He peered down at his brother. "You going to be all right?"

            Percy nodded, took off his glasses, and wiped his eyes. He took a deep breath to bring himself under control, clearly trying to eliminate all traces of his tears before he walked back out into the crowded common room.

            "Good. Then get out of here and leave me in peace," Charlie said, grinning so Percy would know he was joking. "You're nothing but a bloody whinging pain in the arse."

            Percy, who disapproved of such language, jumped to his feet and opened his mouth to say something, but Charlie swatted his behind and sent him on his way toward the door with an affectionate "See you later, runt."

            "See you, Charlie!" Percy called. The door closed, and Charlie stretched out again on his bed with a sigh and a smile.

            As he dozed off, visions of Snitches danced in his head.

~  *  ~

            In all of his years on the Gryffindor Quidditch team, Charlie had never seen anything like the anticipation surrounding this match. The excitement in the corridors was palpable; everyone felt it. Everywhere Charlie went, Gryffindors and Slytherins were looking daggers at one another and prefects were busily deducting House points for everything from hexes to outright brawling on the way to classes. In Double Herbology with the Slytherins on Thursday, the Slytherin Keeper, Wade Warrington, tried to prick Charlie with a thorn from a Somnolent Shrub; Shea tackled him from behind and a riot ensued. Branches and thorns flew thickly, and when the dust cleared, about half the class was slumbering peacefully on the greenhouse floor.

            At lunch (he had been fortunate enough to escape without being pricked, but he was nursing a few bruises and scrapes), Charlie picked at his food, wishing Shea was there -- he was off being revived by Madam Pomfrey after his heroic stand in Greenhouse Four. They'd been best friends since meeting their very first day at Hogwarts, and he really needed somebody to take his mind off Quidditch for a while.

            He forced himself to eat because eating was something necessary that one did, and it would be a bad idea to starve himself before the biggest match of his life. He'd never been able to eat much before Quidditch matches, but his appetite had set a new record this time by deserting him a full week before the big day. He choked down a few bites of steak-and-kidney pie, eyed his plate, decided that was plenty, and left for Gryffindor Tower to talk to his broom for the fifth time that day.

~  *  ~

            On Friday, Charlie woke to find that he'd tossed and turned so much during the night that he'd fallen out of bed. He was lying on the floor in a tangle of blankets, his Cleansweep tucked under his arm.

            Shea had left without waking him. _Probably making sure I get enough rest_, Charlie thought dryly. _Thanks, Mum._

            He decided -- rather unwisely -- to go down to breakfast alone.

            On his way down to the Great Hall, three Slytherins tried to trip him, a girl almost put his eye out with her wand, and three well-placed hexes shot at him from behind. Luckily, he'd always been rather good at Hex Deflection and he managed to block the first two, but the third left him flicking frantically through the pages of _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 7_ for the countercurse to an Itching Hex. Ah, well. All in a day's work.

            "What happened to you?" Mickey asked in some surprise as he slid into a seat at the Gryffindor table by his teammates. 

            He realized that he was looking slightly the worse for wear after running the gauntlet to get downstairs. His face was slightly raw from scratching, his robes were hanging off his shoulder, and he could feel a bruise starting on one cheek where the girl had attempted to remove his eye. He shrugged.

            "Nothing," he said. "Just some Slytherins trying to put me out of action for tomorrow." At the look on her face, he added hastily, "It's nothing I can't handle. It comes with the territory."

            Mickey made a noise of disgust. "Right," she said, getting up, wand in hand. "This is getting ridiculous. First Herbology -- yes, I heard about that, the whole school knows -- and now this. It's about bloody time somebody --"

            "Mickey," Charlie said sharply. "Sit down. The last thing I need is for you to be suspended from the team right before the Quidditch final."

            She gave an aggravated sigh and sat. "Oh, you're right, I suppose, as _usual_." She threw a dark look over her shoulder at the Slytherin table. "Can't we just . . . oh, I don't know, hit them with a Pantsing Spell on the way to class, or something?"

            Charlie gave a spluttering laugh and sprayed the table with pumpkin juice. "Don't tempt me."

            She ignored him. "Or how about something more subtle?" she suggested, her mischievous grin widening. "Let me see . . . there are so many possibilities. My brother was telling me about this hex that'll give you a burning rash -- if we aimed right we could make it really uncomfortable for them on their brooms tomorrow . . ."

            Charlie chuckled at the mental image of the Slytherin team wincing in discomfort as they sat gingerly on their broomsticks. "Good one," he sniggered, beginning to get into the spirit himself. "Okay, how about this: we slip them some Flatulence Brew in their pumpkin juice tomorrow morning."

            Mickey giggled so hard she put her face down on the table and pounded it with her fist. "Oh," she gasped, coming up for air. "We have to, it'll be so great."

            "Mickey!" Charlie exclaimed, trying to be stern but unable to stop laughing. "I was _joking_!"

            "I know, but admit it, it's just too good to waste. Come on, Charlie, it'll be priceless! If you won't do it then I will."

            "You wouldn't," he said, staring at her.

            "Oh, yes, I would," she retorted in mild indignation, tossing her head and glaring at him, challenging him to doubt her daring again. 

            He gazed into her flashing blue eyes; there was just something about her when she became flushed and dangerous like this. A second stretched into a moment until he didn't trust himself to hold her gaze any longer.

            He looked down at his plate of food, feeling a flush creep up his face and burn the tips of his ears. He searched for something to say and decided the team really needed to get down to business.

            "All right, listen up, everyone," he said, raising his voice so the whole team could hear. "Good practice yesterday, men . . . and women," he added hastily, as both Emma and Mickey gave him a Look. "Just show me the same stuff tonight and I'll feel confident tomorrow. Wes, Drake, that Dopplebeater Defense is looking brilliant, but you need to tighten things up a bit, work on your coordination. You _have_ to be on the same page tomorrow . . ."

            They launched into an animated discussion on tactics. Charlie was debating with Shea the wisdom of scattering the Slytherin Chasers on a few key plays with a well-timed dive -- if it was worth momentarily taking his attention away from Seeking -- when he happened to glance over to the Slytherin table. Angus Boyd, the Slytherin Captain, was sitting in the midst of his teammates, who were huddled at the table with their heads together. He was watching Charlie. 

            Boyd looked away at once and bent his head to say something to Cole Biggs, pointedly ignoring Charlie, who watched him for a moment longer, feeling vaguely uneasy.

            Shea glanced up. "What're you . . ?" He followed Charlie's gaze. "Oh," he said with distaste.

            "Never mind them," Charlie said, still inexplicably unsettled. "What do you think the odds are that . . ."

            But Shea wasn't listening. He was watching the Slytherins out of the corner of his eye.

            "Don't know what they think they're doing," he muttered. "They keep looking at you and then acting all secretive."

            "They're talking about Quidditch, you prat," said Charlie.

            "I dunno," Shea said, frowning. "They look a bit dodgy to me."

            Drake leaned over. "What's up, you two? You look much too serious."

            "It's the Slytherins -- don't look now, they're looking this way -- they keep watching Charlie."

            "Who keeps watching Charlie?" asked Wes. 

            "The Slytherins. Don't they look dodgy?"

            Wes craned his neck and stole a look. "They do look dodgy," he agreed.

            "They're talking about Quidditch!" Charlie exclaimed.

            Drake ignored Charlie. "D'you reckon they're planning something?"

            "They could be," said Wes.

            "Who could be what?" Mickey asked curiously.

            "The Slytherins," Shea said. "They're planning something."

            "Who's planning something?" Paddy and Emma asked together.

            That was it. Charlie lost his head.

            "Enough, already!" he shouted. Heads swiveled in his direction. He lowered his voice. "The Slytherins are not planning anything, they're talking about Quidditch, and they look dodgy because they'd look dodgy doing anything! We need to focus, people!"

            Beater, Chaser, and Keeper exchanged glances.

            "All right," said Drake, "but you'll understand when I say that we'll be escorting you to and from classes today."

            Charlie rolled his eyes. "Drake, don't you think you're being just a bit paranoid?"

            "No," the team chorused.

            "Charlie," Wes said. "They tried to take you out on your way down to breakfast."

            "It's not being paranoid, it's being sensible," Emma put in. "We can't have you in the hospital wing tomorrow. A lot of people have it in for you, you know."

            "She's right," Mickey said seriously. "You're Charlie_ Weasley_. The Slytherins know they haven't got a chance if they have to face you tomorrow."

            Charlie felt himself going red. "That's not -- I don't . . ."

            "Don't be so modest, Weasley," Paddy thundered jovially, slapping Charlie on the back. "Aw, look, his face matches his hair."

            Charlie tried and failed to look annoyed. It was hard to get mad at Paddy.

            "Oi, Charlie," Shea said suddenly, looking at his watch. "We're going to be late for Potions."

            Charlie started. "Damn it, you're right," he said, glancing at his own. "We'd better go." 

            He stood up. The whole team followed suit, giving him stubborn looks that dared him to object.

            "Now, really," he protested. "There's no need for _all_ of you to come with me."

            "Oh, go on, humor us," said Wes. "It'll make us feel useful."

            "I see how it is," Paddy said in mock hurt. "You just don't want us around."

            "Think of us as a sort of honor guard," said Emma. "We'll go along shouting, 'Make way for the legendary Charlie Weasley!'"

            "Don't even think about it," he said warningly. "All right, you win. Let's go." And after all, he reflected, there were worse things than walking back and forth to class with a certain curly-haired sixth-year for the rest of the day.

            As the day wore on, he saw Slytherins lurking around wherever he went. They would narrow their eyes when they saw he was accompanied by his team and slink away looking disgruntled.

            He had to admit to himself that the team had a point. As much as it made him uncomfortable when people started calling him "legendary," he knew it wasn't too far off the mark. He was the best Seeker with the best record to come through Hogwarts in the last few hundred years. In all his years on the team, he had only ever missed catching the Snitch twice, and one of those times he had been unconscious. Professional teams had been scouting him since his sixth year. He was sure there were any number of people who would gladly see him hospitalized for the match tomorrow.

            Tomorrow. He felt his insides shrivel up. Tomorrow. Just one more day.

            He was going to be sick.

~  *  ~


	2. Friendly Rivalry

**The Legendary Charlie Weasley**

**Part Two:**

**Friendly Rivalry**

~  *  ~

            Charlie glanced up at the heavy grey mass of storm clouds and pulled his cloak tighter around him as he hurried out through the front doors of the castle. Fifteen minutes before, the sky had been almost clear, the clouds merely a dark, silent blur far in the distance. Now they dominated the sky; flickers of light danced from horizon to horizon.

            Before he'd gone halfway across the grounds, there was an almighty clap of thunder, so loud it seemed to be living in his heart, and torrents of rain poured from the sky. It was a very drenched Charlie Weasley who knocked -- forcefully -- on Hagrid's door thirty seconds later.

            Fang's resounding bark was drowned out by another particularly loud blast of thunder just as the door opened.

            "Charlie!" Hagrid shouted over the noise of the rainstorm, a happy and somewhat amused grin lighting his hairy face at the sight of Charlie standing dripping wet on his doorstep, blinking water out of his eyes.

            "'Lo, Hagrid!" Charlie bellowed back. 

             "Come on -- _back_, Fang! -- come on in." He opened the door wider for Charlie to step inside.

            Once through the door, Charlie threw off his hood and shook his head like a wet dog. Fang sprang at him in a transport of joy, placed his front paws against his shoulders, and presented him with a close-up view of a wide doggy grin and lolling tongue.

            "Hallooooo, there, Fang!" Charlie rumbled in the rough voice he always unconsciously slipped into when talking to dogs. "It's good to see you, too. Yes, it is."

            Fang licked his face.

            "Yes, it is." 

            He rubbed the dog roughly around the ears and growled. Fang, delighted by the attention, gave a joyous bark and knocked Charlie onto the floor, where they engaged in a merry wrestling match. Moments later Charlie was lying on the floor in ignominious defeat, laughing and trying to fend off the victor, who was licking his face triumphantly between ecstatic barks.

            "Okay, Fang, that's enough -- gah! Geroff -- let me up, will you?"

            With some difficulty he managed to get to his feet. Fang wagged his tail, his warm brown eyes laughing and ready for more.

            "Yeh'll never get him ter leave yeh alone after that," Hagrid said as he took the copper teakettle off the fire. "I think he likes yeh better'n me sometimes."

            "Not true!" Charlie protested, pulling up a chair. "He just wants someone his own size to play with -- isn't that right, mate?"  Fang barked in happy agreement.

            Hagrid grinned over at Charlie, who was sitting with Fang sprawled contentedly at his feet and one hand resting idly on the boarhound's head, and added, "Blimey, I think yeh like _him_ better'n yeh like me."

            Charlie laughed. "He has four legs. Of course I do."

            Hagrid chuckled as he put out two cups. "So, ready fer the big match tomorrow? Can't wait -- I got me binoculars all ready."

            Charlie moaned and let his forehead fall onto the table with a thunk. "I don't even want to think about it, Hagrid," he said, his voice muffled.

            "Count to ten, Charlie," Hagrid said cheerfully. "Don' know why yer so worried. From everythin' I've seen since yeh firs' joined the team, Slytherin's got a lot more reason to be worried than you have."

            Charlie felt immeasurably better. Hagrid always had that effect on him. "Cheers, Hagrid. Thanks." 

            "Anytime. Chin up, mate. I'll miss yeh, next year -- any idea what yer goin' to be doing?"

            The smile on Charlie's face disappeared, to be replaced with a pensive frown.

            "No, not yet."

            "Got a few offers, didn' yeh? What was it -- Puddlemere an' Wimbourne?"

            "Yeah." Charlie didn't mention that a week and a half ago, an owl had arrived hinting that he was a top candidate to play Seeker for England in the next World Cup.

            Something in his tone must have betrayed something he hadn't said, because Hagrid looked at him sharply. Charlie stared moodily into his cup.

            "Everythin' all righ' with you?" Hagrid asked slowly, his beetle-black eyes crinkled in concern.

            Charlie shook himself and blinked. "Yeah. Just nerves, you know. About the match."

            Hagrid watched him a moment longer. He looked dubious. Charlie continued to scowl at his tea. 

            "All righ'," Hagrid said finally. "Treacle fudge?"

            "Sure," said Charlie absently.

            Hagrid turned to fetch the tin of fudge.

            "I don't know if I want to play Quidditch next year."

            The words tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop them. There, he'd said it. 

            He was aghast. Before he'd voiced it, he'd been faintly annoyed with himself for thinking such a ridiculous thought. Of course he wanted to play Quidditch next year. It was a fabulous opportunity, something that most people only dreamed about. But with the words still echoing in the air, he felt the truth of them.

            He stole a glance at Hagrid, feeling sure this must have floored him. After all, he'd told Hagrid a hundred times how excited he was that he had the chance to play Quidditch professionally. His mouth would be hanging open.

            Hagrid cocked an eyebrow at him. "Oh," he said. "Why?"

            Charlie felt a rush of relief; at least there was one person who wasn't going to ask him if he'd gone off his rocker. 

            "Well . . ." he hesitated. He'd never had to articulate this. "I don't . . . that is, I love Quidditch, you know I do. It's just that . . . I think I might have been so, I dunno, committed? No. I just . . . knew. It was always there, the fact that I wanted to be a Quidditch player, for such a long time, that I kind of fell in love with the idea and not the reality of it. Gah, sorry, I'm not making sense, I'm blathering . . ."

            "Makes sense ter me," said Hagrid placidly. "Go on."

            Charlie blew out his cheeks. "Right. So. I mean, it sounds glorious and everything, but I don't want to end up losing half my brain cells to Bludgers by the time I'm thirty. And I have a feeling fame isn't all it's cracked up to be. I'd always be on the move, I wouldn't have time for anything but Quidditch, Quidditch, Quidditch, and then I'm afraid that it would become something I did for a job and not something I loved to do. I hear so many stories of burned out athletes, and I really don't want to end up like that. And . . . I think that, maybe a little bit, I've wanted to do this because my whole family is just dotty about Quidditch, and it would give my brothers such a thrill to have a brother who played Seeker for a league team." He winced. "My family. Oh, bloody hell, I don't want to have to tell them this!" He sighed. "But then, I haven't completely made up my mind yet. Maybe I won't have to."

            Hagrid nodded. "All righ'. What were yeh thinkin' of doin' instead?" 

            Charlie grinned and glanced fondly down at Fang. "Guess. If anyone can, you can."

            Hagrid suddenly looked excited. "Are yeh tellin' me that yeh . . ?"

            Charlie laughed at the thunderstruck expression on Hagrid's face and nodded.

            "Crikey!" 

            "Well, I've been coming down to talk to you about magical creatures for seven years now -- it was bound to rub off. You've made me just as nutty about dragons as you are."         

            "Blimey, where are yeh goin' to start?" Hagrid was literally trembling with excitement.

            "Well," Charlie said, beginning to talk faster in his enthusiasm, "a friend of Bill's who graduated last year was telling me about this group of specialists who've been doing some research in Romania. Wizards really don't know that much about dragons; I mean, we know the twelve uses of their blood and that they're big and they breathe fire and they're protective of their eggs, but we don't know that much about how they communicate, because obviously they do somehow, they're incredibly intelligent, or about their social roles in their own environments. They really are amazing creatures, and I have a feeling riding a dragon will be even more exciting than riding a broomstick." He grinned. "Mum is going to have _kittens_."

            "That she will, if everythin' yeh've tol' me about her is true," said Hagrid, his eyes crinkling again in merriment. "But listen, don' put too much pressure on yerself to make a decision righ' away. Plenty o' time fer all that after the match."

            Charlie felt a familiar shiver as he remembered what would take place on the morrow. 

            By the time he'd finished his tea and looked out the window, the wind and rain had ceased and the sky was beginning to clear.

            "I need to get going -- practice," Charlie said, swinging his still damp cloak around his shoulders. 

            "Hope it doesn't rain like that tomorrow," Hagrid observed.

            "I dunno," Charlie said thoughtfully. "I reckon it would give us an advantage. Our team's been practicing in all weathers."

            "Good luck, if I don' see yeh before then," Hagrid said cheerily.

            "Thanks," Charlie said, opening the door to a breath of rain-washed, breezy air. He stopped halfway through and turned around. "And, Hagrid --"

            Hagrid looked at him with a questioning eye.

            "Just -- thanks."

~  *  ~

            Charlie flattened himself to his broom handle and went into a screaming dive, eyes intent on an invisible spot on the pitch far below.

            A Bludger came pelting his way and he swerved to avoid it, never taking his eyes off the pitch. The cold afternoon spring air howled in his ears, painting his nose red as he dived.

            A blur wearing scarlet Quidditch robes suddenly flew into his path, so close and at such speed that he had to wrench his Cleansweep to the right so hard he nearly spun off course; but with a furious effort he maintained control and shot toward the ground like a bird of prey toward a mouse scurrying for cover. 

            The twiggy tail of his Cleansweep brushed the grass as he pulled out of his dive, his heart hammering from the rush of adrenaline. He could hear whooping above him and he grinned with satisfaction. His nerves hadn't thrown off his game one bit.

            "You're slacking tonight, Weasley!" Shea shouted from the other side of the pitch. "That dive was ruddy awful. Get your head into the game!"

            "Shut it, Doherty!" Charlie hollered amiably.

            A dark-haired figure shot past him in the opposite direction. "You almost had me there, Mickey!" he called. "Nice blocking!"

            "You know it," she yelled over her shoulder.

            The sun sank lower and, finally, Charlie called for practice to end. The team gathered round, their faces flushed and sweaty and their breath making silvery clouds in the early evening air.

            "Good practice, all of you," he said, trying to ignore the butterflies fluttering energetically around in his stomach. "I . . . I think we ought to do fine tomorrow."

            They stared at him.

            "Your confidence in us is overwhelming," Paddy said.

            "Charlie, are you okay?" Emma asked, squinting at him through the glare of the setting sun.

            His mouth was dry. "I'm fine," he managed.

            "Your face is green."

            "I'm fine," he insisted.

            "Horse shite," Mickey said frankly. "My dead grandmother looked more fine at her funer--"

            "So," Charlie said loudly, "I want everyone to be well rested for tomorrow. Early bedtime tonight, all right?"

            "So says the insomniac," muttered Shea.

~  *  ~

            Gryffindor Tower positively seethed with excitement that night. The common room was packed to the brim with noisy people, tension, and high spirits; those who would be watching the action from the stands were looking forward to a good Quidditch match with typical Gryffindor confidence and exuberance. A Gryffindor victory was toasted with glasses of water and the Slytherin team was burned in effigy in the roaring fireplace.

            Each member of the team was dealing with the pressure in his or her own particular way. A number of boys of all different years had queued up for the opportunity to arm-wrestle with Drake, who was a half-head taller than anyone else in the room. There were also a few girls, but from the admiring looks they were casting at Drake, it wasn't the thrill of competition that was motivating them. A crowd had gathered, cheering madly as he neatly dispatched one opponent after another.

            Shea and Wes were locked in silent but deadly combat over a chess board. Their chess games had reached an almost legendary status over the years; each was a brilliant player and they were very evenly matched. With every game their rivalry had intensified until each one, to them, was a matter of life and death. Their honour was at stake, and they growled and paced and swore as they did their damnedest to outthink one another.

            Emma was on the floor, stretching. She claimed it helped her to relax and prepare for a match mentally; she felt more confident when she was limbered up and ready to go. She really was incredibly flexible; she could put both feet behind her head at once. It was seriously disturbing to watch.

            Curled up in an armchair by the fire was Mickey. There was a book in her hands but she wasn't reading it. She was staring into the fire, her face pensive.

            Paddy was snogging with Adelaide West, his girl _du jour_.

            Charlie was sitting motionless in a corner apart from all the noise and confusion, hugging his knees and staring unseeingly at the wall.

            He hadn't moved in more than an hour; his whole body was rigid and tense. His back and arms ached, but he couldn't bring himself to relax and rest his weight against the wall. It was ridiculous. He was eighteen years old, he was the best damn Seeker Gryffindor had ever seen, he was muscular and tall as a man, he was about to graduate and start his own life, and he wanted nothing more than to run yammering to his mother so she could hug him and tell him everything would be all right.

            But she was home at the Burrow, and all he could do was close his eyes and hug his knees even more tightly. Although it was quite warm in the common room, he couldn't seem to stop shivering.

_            Bloody hell bloody hell bloody hell bloody hell . . ._

            "How're you holding up?"

            He was living so much on the edge of his nerves that the quiet sentence made him start violently and bump his head against the wall. It was Mickey.

            He tried several times to speak, but it was as if his vocal chords had forgotten how to work. 

            "All right," he croaked finally.

            She didn't say anything, just sat cross-legged on the floor and tugged absently at the carpet. Time elapsed and neither said a word. 

            Her presence made Charlie feel even more on edge, if that was possible. Why had she chosen _now_, of all times, to come sit by him? He just wasn't up to dealing with all of his conflicting feelings at the moment. The way he was feeling, if she so much as looked at him he was going to start bawling like Percy.

            The silence frayed his already ragged nerves. When he didn't think he could take it anymore, he said rather stiffly, "I thought you were reading?" 

            "Couldn't concentrate." 

            He looked at her closely and realized, to his mild surprise, that she was as pale and shaky-looking as he felt. It made him feel obscurely relieved.

            "I know how you feel," he said. "Believe me."

            She tried to smile. "And there's no talking to either of those two," she said, indicating Wes and Shea, who were snarling at one another over their chess board. "I just thought I'd come and . . . but I can go away if you'd rather. I know sometimes before a match I don't want to be bothered."

            "No, no, it's fine," he said quickly. "I don't mind."

            "I thought you could use the company," she said, her solemnity vanishing as an impish smile suddenly lit her face. "I was watching you across the room and you looked like you were about to cry."

            He gave a choked laugh. "Not too far wrong," he said ruefully, then stopped. What the hell did he think he was doing? He was the Captain. The Captain showed no fear. 

            But it was _Mickey_. And she made him feel like he could say anything and she would never judge him. She was funny and sarcastic and insane and she looked so damn cute with her hair in her face. He could talk to her.

            He leaned against the wall and stretched out his stiff legs, feeling some tension drain out as a dam within him burst.

            "I just never realized how much pressure being Captain was going to be, you know? It's my last year, and everyone's counting on us to win, and . . ."

~  *  ~

            Something was tickling his face. He wrinkled his nose, brushed at his face and rolled over.

            Now it was tickling his ear. _What the . . ?_

He opened his eyes and saw a very feathery owl arse no more than two inches from his nose.

            He let out a yelp and, jerking away in disgust, fell out of bed with a thump. As he swore and tried to extricate himself from his blankets for the second day in a row, he could hear Shea laughing.

            "Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty," Shea said wickedly, brandishing a grey owl at him, an owl Charlie recognized as the Weasleys' own Errol. Errol hooted happily and preened his glossy feathers.

            "Run, or you won't be able to get out of bed for a _month_," Charlie growled, leaping to his feet. He wasn't a morning person even under the best of circumstances.

            "Wait just a minute, there, mate. Remember before you club me unconscious with your broomstick that there's a Quidditch match we have to win today."

            "Will you two do us a favor and shut up?" Glen Parsons' sleepy voice said from behind the scarlet hangings of a bed across the room.

            "Hear, hear," mumbled Caleb Shaw.

            "Sorry." Shea handed Charlie his letter, still grinning. "Truce?"

            Charlie ignored Shea's proffered hand. "You just better watch your back once the match is over," he said darkly, retreating to his bed to open his letter from home.

__

_Charlie, dear,_

_                                I do hope you slept last night -- I know how you get before _

_                Quidditch matches. And make sure you eat a good breakfast this_

_                morning._

_                                With that said, good luck today! It's been nothing but _

_                Quidditch, Quidditch, Quidditch for the last week. The boys have _

_                talked of nothing else. When I told the twins no, we wouldn't be _

_                able to watch the match, they threw a fit and set fire to the shed._

_                                Your father and I are both incredibly proud of you. I know _

_                that you'll be brilliant, but even if you lose, you're still doing _

_                something you love. So go out and have fun on that broomstick; _

_                that's all that matters._

_                                Say hello to Percy for us. Best of luck!_

_Love, _

_Mum_

            There was another slip of parchment inside, wadded up into a crumpled ball. Charlie smoothed it out and grinned as he recognized Ron's awkward seven-year-old scrawl.

            _C__haRli__E__ don__T__ Li__S__en To __M__um your g__O__ing t__O___

_        Ani__Y__a__L__ate Sl__Y__theri__N__. __L__o__V__e Ron._

~  *  ~

            Breakfast that morning was a very silent affair. Only Drake was able to eat more than a few bites. Charlie had made sure everyone had gone to bed by ten o'clock the night before, but the only person who looked truly rested was Paddy. He alone would have seemed unaffected by tension were it not for the fact that he hadn't made a single pass at Mickey all morning. 

            Mickey glanced sideways at Charlie, who was sitting feeling very much like a deer in headlights. 

            "Charlie, _breathe_," she muttered out of the corner of her mouth.

            He gave her a tight, strained smile and realized that he had, in fact, been forgetting to breathe.

            Someone crashed into Charlie without warning, knocking him forward and giving him a face full of porridge.

            "So sorry," said a cheerful voice behind him. "My fault entirely. Must have slipped."

            Charlie's jaw dropped. "_Bill?_" he spluttered, swiveling around in his chair.

            Bill grinned down at him. His hair was longer than Charlie remembered and he had tied it back in a short ponytail, but otherwise he looked the same. 

            "But -- Gringotts -- how . . ."  Charlie was at a loss.

            "I took a sick day. You didn't think I was going to miss the biggest Quidditch match of my little brother's life, did you?" 

            "When did you get here?" Charlie asked, amazed.

            "Five minutes ago," Bill answered. "Apparated to Hogsmeade and walked on up. That porridge on your face is a nice look for you, by the way."

            "All right, Bill?" Shea asked with a grin as Charlie rather absently wiped the porridge off his face, still staring at his brother.

            "Not bad, Shea. You?" 

            "Been better." Shea scowled at Wes, who was sending him gloating, triumphant looks from down the table. "Don't ever play chess with that git. He cheats, I'm telling you."

            The astonishment on Charlie's face changed slowly to a grin. "Does Mum know?"

            Bill drew himself up and feigned indignation. "Merlin's beard, Charlie, I'm not a _child._ I'm a Hogwarts graduate and gainfully employed. The fact that I still live at home is irrelevant, and Mum can't stop me from taking a sick day to watch Quidditch if I feel like it."

            "So. Does Mum know?"

            Bill grinned sheepishly. "Do you know, I think I forgot to mention it." He pulled out a vacant chair and dropped into it with a satisfied sigh.

            Charlie snickered. "I always knew they made a mistake naming you Head Boy, you sneaky git. There always was a bit of Fred and George in you."

            Bill looked properly shocked. "Never!" He took a swig of Charlie's untouched pumpkin juice and settled back in his chair. He noticed Emma sitting across from him and smiled, making her turn a brilliant shade of pink. 

            "All right there, Emma?" Bill asked. "How've you been?"

            Bill had inherited more than his fair share of Weasley charm. Emma blushed even harder. 

            "_Bill!"_

            A red-haired streak flew at the oldest Weasley brother.

            "Perce!" Bill exclaimed with a warm smile. "Hey! How're you doing, little man?"

            Percy had idolized Bill since Bill had first been named prefect. The two actually had a lot in common, although it was difficult to imagine Percy growing up to be as laid back as Bill had turned out to be.

            "No, Perce, Mum does not know I'm here. And she isn't going to, is she? _Is_ she?"

            Bill's surprise appearance cheered Charlie a great deal. He and his brother had always been very close and they hadn't seen one another since the Christmas holidays. In no time, he and the team were catching Bill up on all of the latest Hogwarts news and laughing over memories of old Quidditch matches.

            They had eaten early. There was still a good two hours to go before the start of the match; Bill accompanied them back to Gryffindor Tower and made snide comments as Charlie talked to his Cleansweep to soothe his nerves.

            "You've lost your bloody mind. You're talking to a _broomstick_, you nutter."

            Charlie pointedly turned his back on his brother. "Don't listen to the smug git," he told his broom loudly. "He's just jealous because he was always absolute pants at Quidditch."

            Charlie left before the rest of the team. He always liked to be the first one out on the pitch, to stand alone on the grass in the vast, empty stadium and take great breaths of dewy spring air. The Quidditch pitch had always been his sanctuary, the place he felt most at home in the world. He needed to be there.

            He was walking down a deserted corridor with his broom over his shoulder, lost in his own thoughts, when he thought he heard a sound behind him.

            He stopped and glanced over his shoulder but saw nothing. He stood still for a moment, listening. All was silence. Most of the school was still down at breakfast. 

            He was just edgy, that was all. He continued on his way, a little unnerved.

            "_Stupefy!"_

His instincts had warned him. With a jolt of fear and adrenaline, Charlie threw himself to the side as a bolt of red light shot through the air where he had just been standing. Cursing himself for the biggest fool that ever walked a Hogwarts corridor, he pulled his wand out of his robes, leaped to his feet, whirled around, and shouted,_ "Expelliarmus!"_

There were four of them, cloaked and hooded, with dark masks that obscured their features. His spell hit the nearest one, blasted him off his feet, and sent his wand skittering across the floor. But the words had barely left Charlie's mouth when one of the remaining three shouted and he was hit with a second Disarming Charm. He staggered and managed to keep his feet, but his wand and his Cleansweep flew out of his hands. 

            He swore violently, was about to make a dive for his wand, then on balance decided that, even armed, the odds weren't really in his favor. He turned tail and made a wild dash for the doorway at the end of the corridor.

            He was almost there when he heard a cry of "Stop him!" from behind and the door slammed shut in his face. He heard a lock click. He slammed his fists into it in a frenzy of desperation, but to no avail.

            Breathing hard, he spun around. They advanced on him almost lazily, enjoying the moment. 

            "Are you daft?" he shouted. "Even if you stop me from playing, you'll be disqualified from the tournament for cheating!" The sight of them sent an icy chill up his back. Childhood memories were not to be forgotten too easily, and the masks were all too familiar.

            "You don't even know who we are," said the tallest masked figure in an unnaturally deep voice; they had used some sort of spell to disguise their voices as well. "You can't identify us." He laughed unpleasantly. "No, Slytherin won't be disqualified. See you after the match, loser."

            He raised his wand triumphantly. Charlie was wandless and cornered, facing four opponents, three of whom were armed. Magic couldn't help him now. 

            So he launched himself straight toward the leader, whose eyes widened behind the mask in sudden fear as he realized Charlie was attacking him. He tried to duck, but too late; Charlie slammed his fist into the sneering, masked face. Hard. 

            They crashed to the floor in a tangle of flailing limbs, Charlie pummeling the other without mercy. He reached for the mask, but his opponent gathered himself a moment too soon and struck his reaching arm away. In a man to man fight, Charlie would have made short work of him, but in a moment two of the others had seized his arms and dragged him off of their comrade. He struggled and managed to elbow one of them in the face, but all he got for his effort was a fist that crashed into his stomach, knocking the wind out of him and leaving him gasping for breath.

            The leader picked himself up and struck Charlie across the face. Furious and despairing, defiant and hopeless, he lunged, but the grip on his arms was too tight. _No!_ he cried inside his head. _You can't do this! _

            "_Stupefy!"_

~  *  ~


	3. Humiliate, Annhilate, and Destroy

**The Legendary Charlie Weasley**

**Part Three:**

**Humiliate, Annihilate, and Destroy******

**~**  *  ~

He awoke to utter darkness. 

            He blinked; there was no difference when his eyes were open and closed. Had he gone blind? He was bewildered.

_            Where --_

Memory came rushing back. The attack. The Stunning Spell. The_ MATCH! _

            He sat bolt upright and yelped in pain as his already aching head crashed into something hard. He felt around more carefully. There was room to stand, but just enough. He got to his feet gingerly and realized that he was in some kind of broom closet. Wire hangers made a clanging racket as his head bumped into them. He stepped on a mop handle and almost slipped as he felt frantically for the door.

            There was a tiny key hole, letting in a microscopic shaft of dim light, but no handle. It was, as he had guessed it would be, locked.

            He let out a howl of frustration and hammered on the door, hollering and hoping in vain that someone could hear him. He wondered what time it was, growing more and more frantic. Everyone was down at the match.

            _Okay, Weasley, think. What are your assets here? Brooms, plenty of mops . . ._

            He irritably pushed the wire hangers away as he thought.

            _A couple of crates, some bottles that are probably some kind of cleaning solution, these bollocking hangers . . ._

A light went on in his brain.

            Thanking his lucky stars that he was related to Fred and George Weasley, he took one of the hangers, straightened it out, and bent it with feverish fingers into a lock pick.

            _Come on, come ON, you better bloody work . . ._

After a few tense moments, the lock clicked and the door swung creakily open, blinding him with the morning light. 

            "YES!"

            He wasn't too far from where he'd been ambushed. He tore down the corridor, heading for the front doors and hoping harder than he'd ever hoped before that he wasn't too late.

            He practically flew down the marble staircase and his heart gave a huge bound as he saw a few straggling Ravenclaws making for the doors, a Gryffindor banner in tow. The match hadn't yet begun.

            "Hey!" 

            They turned to stare at him in surprise, no doubt alarmed by his wild-eyed appearance.

            "I need to use one of your wands!" he blurted. "No time to explain -- it's really important! Thanks -- _Accio Cleansweep Five! Accio wand!"_

            He had to concentrate rather harder than usual because he wasn't using his own wand, and for a panicked second he thought it hadn't worked, but then, with a great rush of relief, he saw them speeding through the air toward him.

            "Thanks, I owe you one!" he shouted over his shoulder as he plucked broomstick and wand out of the air, tossed the bewildered Ravenclaw his borrowed wand, and burst through the doors onto the grounds, blinking in the blinding sunlight.

            It was a perfect day for Quidditch, and he could hear the buzz of the crowd as he neared the pitch. The familiar sound set him on fire. He was going to play Quidditch! And he was going to _kick _some slimy Slytherin_ ARSE_!

            He burst into the locker room and it was as if someone had set off an entire box of Dr. Filibuster's Fabulous Wet-Start, No-Heat, Extremely Angry and Frantic Gryffindor Quidditch Player Fireworks.

            "WHERE THE _HELL_ HAVE YOU _BEEN?_" they screamed. They were all looking as though they wanted to strangle him and kiss him at the same time.

            "Sorry," he gasped, heading immediately for his locker and fending them off so that he could pull on his Quidditch robes under a steady barrage of questions. 

            "Shut up!" he bellowed. "How long have we got to be out on the pitch?"

            "About ten seconds!"

            "Could you have cut it _any_ closer? Bloody _hell_, Charlie!"

            "We thought we were going to have to use Wayne Sheffield!"

            "Where _were_ you?"

            "Wayne _Sheffield_, Charlie!"

            Mickey looked just as furious as the rest of the team, but suddenly her eyes widened as they traveled across his face and saw his split lip.

            "The _Slytherins_," she gasped.

            The rest of the team shut up. Identical looks of comprehension dawned on all their faces.

            Charlie steadfastly ignored them and concentrated on putting on his shin guards.

            "What happened? What did they do?" 

            "Nothing." Charlie checked that his elbow guards were secure. "Everyone ready?" He picked up his broom and walked to the door, where he found his way barred by Shea, Paddy, and Drake.

            "You're not going anywhere until you tell us what happened," Drake said flatly.

            "Then we're going to miss the match," Charlie snapped, "because nothing happened."

            "What kind of idiots do you take us for?" Shea demanded.

            "We have a Quidditch Cup to win," Charlie said, unmoved. "I'll explain everything to you later. Come on, you lot. Are you ready to humiliate, annihilate, and destroy?" 

            The sound of their motto was not without effect on the team. A familiar light came into their eyes and they began to grin. They exchanged looks.

            "All right, Captain." Drake said. "Lead the way. But we expect a complete and detailed explanation later." 

            His heart pounding with deadly resolve, Charlie led the way out to the pitch. He wasn't afraid anymore. He was itching for this match. And he was pissed off.

            There was an explosion of cheering as the Gryffindors walked out onto the field. The Gryffindors and most of the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws deafened them as they waved scarlet banners and rosettes. The Slytherins' boos could scarcely be heard.

            "And heeeeeere's Gryffindor!" Chase Jordan bellowed through his magical megaphone. "That's Weasley, Chapman, Doherty, Donnelly, McBroome, Payton, and Quinn. Winners of the Quidditch cup for four years straight, soon to be five -- ouch, Professor!"

            As they walked toward the center of the pitch, Mickey pulled Charlie aside.

            "What happened, Charlie?" she said fiercely. "I _know_ they did something. Are you just going to let them get _away_ with it?" She sounded incredulous.

            He sighed, looked around, and put his hands on her shoulders, looking her very seriously right in the eyes. "Look, Mickey, if I rat on them, they'll be disqualified, and there won't be a match. We've come way too far and worked much too hard. I want to beat them fair and square, I don't want to win by default. You can't tell anyone, promise me?"

            She looked back just as seriously and he could tell she was thinking it over. "Well, when you put it that way . . ." She grinned suddenly. "I don't like it, but I do see your point. All right. Humiliate, annihilate, and destroy it is."

            "And here come the Slytherins!" Chase shouted. "Biggs, Grayson, Kirk, Pearce, Warrington, and the famous -- or infamous -- Beater pair, Fergus Floyd and Captain Angus Boyd. Angus Boyd and Fergus Floyd, ah, that just never gets old . . ."

            Angus Boyd met Charlie's eyes across the pitch and his jaw dropped. His face turned purple and he looked daggers at his teammates, who were gawking at Charlie; Conan Kirk, the Seeker, was looking slightly the worse for wear with a nose that was red and terrifically swollen. Boyd looked back at Charlie and glared out of a truly spectacular black eye, and in the glare Charlie saw a sudden burst of understanding as Boyd realized that Charlie didn't mean to tell anyone. As the two Captains locked gazes, each understood the other perfectly. Their eyes blazed across the field, passionate for the match to begin.

            _That's right_, Charlie told Boyd silently. _I'm not going to tell on you like a little first year. But you are going to wish I had. I'll have my vengeance, but it will be in the air._

            "Captains, shake hands," Madam Hooch said.

            "Bad idea," muttered Shea as both Charlie and Boyd stiffened and set their jaws. Neither moved.

            "_Captains_," said Madam Hooch sharply.

            The air between the two Captains was so charged it was practically crackling. They shook.

            "Mount your brooms!"

            "Watch your backs," Charlie warned his team in a low voice as they all mounted their broomsticks. If the Slytherins weren't above kidnapping him, he didn't want to think about what they might try fifty feet in the air.

            Madam Hooch put her whistle in her mouth. "Three . . . two . . ."

            _Come on,_ he urged mentally, every muscle tensed and ready. He was _hungry_ for this match. _Come on . . ._

The whistle blew.

            Charlie kicked off and his eardrums nearly exploded with the force of the crowd's roar. 

            "Aaaaand they're off!" Chase bellowed. "Quaffle taken immediately by Gryffindor, that's Paddy 'Your Boyfriend's Worst Nightmare' Quinn up there, ladies and gentlemen, a veteran Chaser -- a nice pass to Doherty -- _no!_ -- wait, never mind, thought it was intercepted by Pearce for a minute there, but Doherty's got it, that's Shea Doherty of Gryffindor flying up there -- dodges a Bludger from Boyd -- and another from Floyd -- _beautiful_ Porskoff Ploy! Fiona 'Mickey' McBroome times it perfectly and comes up with the Quaffle -- Slytherin didn't expect it, she's got nothing but clear space in front of her -- YES! GRYFFINDOR SCORES!"

            Mickey pumped her fist in the air as Gryffindor House screamed its excitement. Paddy flew over for a celebratory hug.

            "And it's Gryffindor who draws first blood!" Chase shouted. "Slytherin gains possession, that's Kermit Grayson with the Quaffle -- ouch, that had to hurt, hit in the stomach with a Bludger, nice Beater work there by Wes Payton -- Doherty grabs the Quaffle and heads for goal -- come on, Shea! Argh, no, pass intercepted by Owen Pearce. He dodges Chaser Quinn, heads toward Gryffindor goal -- stop him, damn it!"

            "_Jordan_!"

            "Sorry, Professor, sorry. Reverse pass to Biggs -- _nice_ shot, Drake! Ooh, Beater Donnelly misses, but Biggs was this close to leaving the pitch minus a couple of teeth -- he's nearly there --"

            "STOOGING!" the crowd roared.

            As Emma had hovered in front of the goalposts, ready for Cole Biggs to make a shot, she hadn't noticed Kermit Grayson flying straight toward her from the side. He sideswiped her, causing her to spin violently and nearly fall off her broom. She clutched at it for dear life. The Quaffle went through.

            "NO GOAL!" Madam Hooch screeched. "Penalty to Gryffindor!"

            "WHAT!?" howled Grayson. "I hardly _touched_ her!"

            Charlie's murderous thoughts toward the offending Chaser were suddenly interrupted by a flash of gold close to the ground by the Gryffindor goalposts. 

            Instantly, he spun his Cleansweep around and urged it upward in the opposite direction. Conan Kirk, hovering perilously close to the Snitch and watching a heated argument unfold between the Slytherin Chasers and Madam Hooch, gave a start and took off after Charlie with a panicked look on his face. When Charlie finally chanced a look the Snitch had disappeared.

            "HA!" Chase yelled gleefully. "And the Slytherin Seeker takes the bait! Excellent diversion by Weasley, drawing Kirk away from the Snitch, which he was practically sitting on, by the way . . ."

            Kirk shot Charlie a mutinous glare.

            Shea came forward to take the penalty for Grayson's foul. Warrington dived and missed.

            "Twenty to zero, Gryffindor!" shouted Chase. "A brilliant shot by Chaser Doherty!"

            "And that, Warrington," Shea crowed, "was for the Somnolent Shrub! Ha! Kiss my --" 

            "And Gryffindor has possession once more, that's McBroome with the Quaffle. I tell you, that girl was made to play Quidditch --"

            Charlie was marking Kirk closely, scanning the pitch for any sign of silvery wings. When Paddy scored off of a reverse pass from Mickey he kept even closer. Just two more goals and he could go for the Snitch . . . just two more.

            "Charlie!" Emma shrieked suddenly from behind him. "Look out!"

            Charlie jumped at the urgency in her cry and dived immediately and without asking questions. He felt a breeze ruffle his hair as a Bludger whistled over his head and, sensing something even larger bearing down on him, rolled over in midair. A green blur passed inches away from him.

            _Rotten bastard, Boyd!_

            He heard smug laughter and with a growl and considerable effort he managed to straighten himself out. 

            He scanned the pitch and felt his stomach clench. Conan Kirk was diving.

            He tore after him. He was probably feinting, but you never knew . . . he flattened himself to the handle of his Cleansweep as Floyd sent a Bludger toward him, let out a growl of frustration -- he was directly behind Kirk, so he couldn't tell if the Snitch was really there or not -- and suddenly the ground was rushing up at him and he had to wrench his broom handle straight to prevent himself from plowing headfirst into the pitch.

            "FOUL!" Chase was screaming as three-quarters of the crowd gave voice to outrage and the Slytherins cheered. "That was blatching!"      

            Charlie was seething. He'd never been Wronski Feinted before. Ever. If Boyd hadn't nearly killed him he'd never have fallen for it, but, distracted, he had been forced to honor the feint. 

            Boyd was grinning at him. It had cost him a penalty, but he had rattled Charlie, and that was worth far more than ten points.

            "Chaser McBroome puts away the shot, no problem, and we continue, Gryffindor still in possession."

            A Bludger sent Shea's way by Fergus Floyd put the Quaffle in the hands of Cole Biggs. He sped toward the Gryffindor goalposts and lobbed it to Owen Pearce, who hurled it with all his strength. Emma flung herself forward and managed to get a finger on it, and it was enough; the Quaffle went wide.

            "Chapman with a _spectacular_ save!" Chase cried. "I don't know how that girl does it -- the Quaffle is bigger than she is! Are you taking notes, Warrington?"

            "Would you like me to find a new commentator, Jordan?"

            "Sorry, Professor, sorry! I was just caught up in the moment! That's Paddy Quinn of Gryffindor with possession -- just one more goal will open up the door for Charlie Weasley --"

            "_Come on, Quinn_!" Charlie bellowed.

            His face set in concentration, Paddy ducked a Bludger and took off down the pitch, zigzagging to shake Pearce and Grayson, who were closing in rapidly. He feinted left and passed the Quaffle to Mickey, who tucked it under her arm, rolled over on her broom as Biggs sped toward her and aimed a fake punch at her nose, came up smoothly, and flung the Quaffle toward the left hoop.

            With a grunt of effort Warrington stretched his arm to his utmost, but the Quaffle whistled past his fingertips and bounced off the rim of the hoop as it soared through.

            "YES!" 

            The roar from the crowd went up as though from one throat. Flushed and jubilant, Charlie spied Bill in the crowd, jumping up and down and hollering till he was blue in the face. Their eyes met for an instant and Bill pointed at him, mouthing, "You! It's all you!"

            As Chase ecstatically shouted through his magical megaphone and Paddy and Shea pounded her enthusiastically on the back, Mickey turned to Charlie. She gave him a thumbs up. He nodded and squared his shoulders.

            Now was his time.

            "Pearce with the Quaffle, the Slytherin Chasers using a variation of the Hawkshead Attacking Formation . . ."

            The Slytherins were growing increasingly frustrated by their inability to score a fair goal; the Gryffindor Chasers and Beaters were simply too good. As the play increased in intensity, the game was rapidly becoming the dirtiest, nastiest, grimmest Quidditch match Charlie had ever seen. 

            Pearce locked broom handles with Shea, who came perilously close to crashing into the stands. When Emma made another sensational save, Boyd grabbed the tail of her broom and tried to dump her off. Paddy put the Quaffle through the Slytherin hoop and doubled over as Wade Warrington's elbow crashed into his stomach. Mickey dropped the Quaffle and nearly fell from her Comet 260 when Kermit Grayson seized her ponytail as she was in full flight. The penalties mounted and the Slytherins played even dirtier as Gryffindor's lead increased.

            The sun crept across the sky as the game went on into the afternoon, and still there was no sign of the Snitch.

            "Gryffindor leads by a hundred and ten points to zero, Doherty with the Quaffle . . ."

            Charlie's eyes roved the pitch. Where was the bloody thing? In all his time at Hogwarts he had rarely seen it keep out of sight for so long.

            The whistle blew. "BIGGS!" Madam Hooch roared.

            Charlie's head snapped over to Madam Hooch, who was looking angrier than he had ever seen her. Cole Biggs looked up guiltily; he had been flying toward Conan Kirk and had something grasped in his hand.

            "What?" he said, his face reddening, his tone too innocent.

            Madam Hooch advanced on him and he cowered as she pried open his fingers, pulled out the Golden Snitch, and began bawling him out.

            ". . . haven't seen a Snitchnip at Hogwarts in years! Pull something like that one more time, Biggs, just _once_ more, and you will not be playing in this match anymore, you will be watching! Have I made myself _perfectly_ clear? I am disgusted, absolutely _disgusted_ that a player would even _consider_ such tactics. . ."

            When she finally finished with him, Biggs looked slightly shell-shocked. She flew off to the side, blew the whistle, and play resumed. The Snitch had vanished once more.

            A goal and a penalty later, the Slytherins still had yet to score and Shea had the Quaffle.

            "Gryffindor leads a hundred and thirty points to zero," Chase was saying enthusiastically. "At this rate, Gryffindor isn't even going to need the Snitch!"

            Shea ducked as Floyd approached with his club at the ready and passed the Quaffle to Mickey. As she tucked it under her arm and sped up the field, Grayson fell into place on her left and Pearce closed in on her from the right. Charlie's heart fell into his stomach with an unpleasant thunk as he realized that Cole Biggs, still smarting from Madam Hooch's tongue-lashing, was hurtling straight toward her from the Slytherin end.

            "_Mickey, get out of there_!" he yelled frantically, his heart thumping. He urged his Cleansweep forward, but there was no way he was going to make it in time.

            "Get off!" he heard Mickey cry, struggling to turn her Comet upwards, but she was tightly sandwiched between Pearce and Grayson. Charlie watched, horrified, as Biggs closed in rapidly.

            A split second before impact, a second figure in scarlet darted in front of Biggs. With a sickening thud they collided; the green-robed figure lurched away dizzily, but the Gryffindor let out a cry of pain and began to spiral toward earth.

            The crowd went suddenly and eerily quiet.

            _Paddy._

~  *  ~

            "Paddy, you great bloody prat!" Mickey cried. "What did you think you were playing at?" She sounded close to tears.

            "Stand back, please," Madam Pomfrey snapped, hurrying out onto the pitch where the Gryffindor team was gathered around Paddy.

            Paddy was grey-faced with pain, but he managed to grin feebly as Madam Pomfrey felt delicately to see where he was hurt. "I was . . . rescuing the damsel in distress, of course," he said. "Come on, Mickey, you can't deny your love for me anymore -- just kiss me better and I'll be ready to go."

            "Paddy, honestly --"

            "Just let me hear you say it once: 'Paddy, you're my _hero_.'"

            Despite the gravity of the situation, the team sniggered and even Mickey laughed reluctantly.

            He winced as Madam Pomfrey finished poking around.

            "Broken rib," she said briskly. "Or two. Or three. It's off to the hospital wing with you, sir."

            "No!" Paddy protested vehemently. "I can play . . . the Cup!" He tried to sit up, but turned even paler and sank back with a whimper.

            "Quidditch!" Madam Pomfrey said disgustedly. "Students risking life and limb, no, you most certainly will _not_ be playing any more Quidditch today, Mr. Quinn, you need _immediate_ attention."

            Charlie and the rest of the team exchanged grim looks. If a player went down, there could be no substitutions. That was the rule. No exceptions. 

_            Bloody hell._

            Paddy was looking devastated. For, despite his customary devil-may-care attitude, Charlie knew how much Quidditch meant to Paddy. He looked like he wanted to cry.

            Paddy clenched his hands into fists and closed his eyes. The team exchanged helpless looks. They didn't know what to say. Paddy was always so cocky. It hurt to see him lose his swagger.

            Finally, he looked up. "I'm sorry, Charlie," he said, sounding furious with himself. "I'm an idiot. I thought Biggs would back off when he saw me coming. It just happened so bloody _fast_ . . ."

            "It is _not_ your fault, Paddy," Charlie said sharply. "If that cheating scum hadn't tried to Parkin's Pincer Mickey, none of this would've happened."

            Paddy stopped berating himself, but he adamantly refused to go to the hospital wing. Madam Pomfrey was going to have to work on him where he could watch the match, he announced, or his ribs could bloody well stay broken. Madam Pomfrey was initially speechless at such a proposition, but Professor McGonagall intervened and arranged for a cot to be set up in the stands.

            "All right, men," Charlie said to the team as they prepared to resume play.

            "And women," said Emma and Mickey automatically.

            "And women. Listen up. The Slytherins had it coming before. Now they have it coming so much there aren't words to describe what they have coming to them. Let's do it for Paddy, all right?"

            They nodded fiercely, as determined as ever, but Charlie noticed with a sink of the heart that they were looking exhausted. They were bruised and battered from two straight hours of being fouled without mercy. They were tired from Beating and Chasing and Keeping. They were drained emotionally. 

            Still, they had a good lead, Charlie reminded himself, and gave himself a mental shake. _No room for fear here. We're going to --_

            "Humiliate, annihilate, and destroy!" they roared.

            They went to their brooms galvanized and resolute. But by the end of the first five minutes, it had become clear just how sorely they were going to miss Paddy Quinn.

            With the absence of an opposing Chaser, the Slytherins were finally playing smart Quidditch. They didn't need to foul Mickey and Shea; instead, they harassed them, pressing their advantage. When either Gryffindor Chaser needed to get rid of the Quaffle, the Slytherins were practically glued to their only option.

            "Argh!" Chase groaned. "Pass intercepted by Pearce and nothing but open space in front of him -- come on, Emma, you can stop it!"

            But a thunderous cheer went up from the green-clad section of the crowd; Slytherin had scored its first goal of the match. Chase was beside himself, swearing so loudly and violently that Professor McGonagall pulled the magical megaphone out of his hands and cracked him smartly over the head with it.

            And that was the way it continued to go. Slytherin closed the gap almost as steadily as Gryffindor had made it, despite the best efforts of Gryffindor's remaining players. Wes and Drake were drenched with sweat from constantly swinging their Beater clubs. Emma was looking wild-eyed, for with their superior numbers, the Slytherin Chasers were able to shake off Mickey's and Shea's best defensive efforts with ease, and they were having great success keeping her confused as to where the Quaffle was coming from. Shea and Mickey were looking increasingly desperate as they struggled to keep Gryffindor up and give Charlie more time. Paddy, in the stands, was tearing his hair out.

            "Gryffindor leads by a hundred and thirty points to seventy," Chase said tensely. "Still sixty points up . . ."

            Charlie searched the pitch frantically; if Slytherin scored just two more goals they could kiss the Quidditch Cup good-bye. He had to catch the Snitch _now_.

            Wiping sweat from his brow, he spun around and shot away from Kirk, who was marking him with maddening persistence. There was a smug grin on his face that Charlie itched to wipe off.

            "Grayson scores another goal for Slytherin," Chase said, sounding panicked. "Gryffindor with possession. Doherty gets the Quaffle -- ducks a Bludger --"

            Every eye in the stadium was upon Charlie. His eyes desperately roved the stands, the air, the pitch . . .

            And he saw it.

            A glint of gold -- the flutter of silvery wings just above the pitch on the Gryffindor side --

            He dived. The wind tore at his face and hair and screamed in his ears as he shot toward earth. This was it -- his only  chance -- it was now or never --

            "GO, CHARLIE!" Mickey and Shea screamed together.

            "Come on, mate, it's all yours!" Paddy bellowed from the stands, half-rising from his cot. Madam Pomfrey planted a hand in the middle of his chest and pushed him firmly back down.

            Charlie swerved as one Bludger and then the other whistled past him, his eyes never leaving the golden glint. He was closing in. He was nearly there.

            A green blur streaked toward him -- he caught a glimpse of Angus Boyd, lips curling in a snarl and eyes narrowed in deadly determination -- he kept his eyes on the Snitch as Boyd hurtled closer -- he reached out his arm with a thrill of victory and made a wild snatch --

            Boyd slammed into him with the force of the Hogwarts Express.

            Bright lights exploded behind his eyes; his hand was torn from the handle of his Cleansweep and he was thrown violently from his broom. The world spun dizzyingly around him in a blur of color as he tumbled onto the grassy pitch to land painfully and jarringly on his side. There was a loud thud beside him as Boyd hit the ground heavily a split second later.

            The stadium was silent as the entire crowd held its breath.

            Breathing hard in the sudden quiet and not quite prepared yet to open his eyes, Charlie mentally checked off a list of body parts that seemed to be working. It was hard to keep track; his head was spinning with dizzying speed. It was a moment before he was fully convinced that he was, in fact, alive. He opened his eyes. 

            And he held up the Golden Snitch.

            The pitch quaked as hundreds of throats let out an earsplitting cheer and the Slytherins let out a universal howl of dismay, and suddenly Charlie was grinning so hard that his face hurt. Glorious triumph swept through him. They'd won the Cup! _Ha! Take that, you cheating scum!_

            "DID YOU SEE THAT?" Chase was screaming over the crowd's uproar. "DID YOU BLOODY SEE THAT?"

            Exultantly Charlie struggled to sit up, but suddenly slammed back into the ground as a shape swooped down out of the sky and tackled him, yelling like a maniac.

            "You did it, you crazy bastard! You did it!" Shea yelled as Charlie, laughing madly and gasping for air, tried to push him off so he could breathe. But a series of thumps signaled the arrival of Mickey, Wes, Emma, and Drake; Charlie found himself buried under a tangle of jubilant teammates, all of whom were cheering and laughing in sheer exultation, screaming his name and pounding him enthusiastically. Mickey shrieked, "Charlie, you mad, wonderful lunatic!" flung her arms around him, and kissed his cheek; Wes was yelling incoherently; Drake was bellowing "YES! YES!" and ruffling Charlie's hair violently with one massive hand; Emma was giggling uncontrollably and trying not to get squashed. 

            "You were all brilliant!" Charlie yelled hoarsely. "Bloody _brilliant!"_

            Elated spectators were streaming onto the pitch. The Gryffindors got to their feet just in time to be assailed by jubilant fans. Charlie caught sight of a familiar tall, red-headed figure making its way toward him through the pandemonium, and a moment later Bill had tackled him, bellowing, "That's MY little brother!" 

            "Get off me, you git!" Charlie yelled in mock fury, pulling Bill's hair out of its neat ponytail and mussing it enthusiastically. Bill yelped, let go of him, and felt to see how much damage had been done. An instant later Charlie heard a familiar voice shrieking his name; looking around, he spied Percy trying to push through the boisterous crowd and in danger of being squashed.

            "Get over here, runt!" he bellowed, striding through the crowd and tossing his brother up in the air.

            "That was brilliant!" Percy shrilled. "This is even better than banging Eben and Cecil's heads together! Ha! They won't even be able to _look_ at me!"            

            Out of the corner of his eye, Charlie caught sight of the Slytherin team glumly pulling a groaning Angus Boyd to his feet. As they helped him limp off the pitch toward Madam Pomfrey, he glowered over his shoulder at Charlie, a second black eye  darkening on his face. Charlie just looked at him with fierce, contemptuous satisfaction. 

            "I DON'T CARE!" came a yell from above. "I'M GOING, AND YOU'LL HAVE TO TIE ME DOWN TO STOP ME!"

            "_No_, Mr. Quinn -- stop that, lie _down_!"

            A moment later, the Gryffindor team was racing up into the stands, where they found Madam Pomfrey panting but flushed with victory, standing with her wand held over a Body-Bound and furious Paddy Quinn.

            "Madam Pomfrey!" Mickey gasped, clapping a hand over her mouth. She sounded very much as though she wanted to be indignant but instead was finding it difficult not to dissolve into gales of laughter.

            "Don't 'Madam Pomfrey' me!" the nurse huffed. "It's his own fault -- determined to get himself killed -- _never_, in all my years . . ."

            Charlie himself was trembling with suppressed mirth, but at the increasingly wrathful and desperate look in Paddy's eyes he took pity on his teammate and performed the counter-curse. 

            Paddy blinked and looked round at them all. 

            "It is _not_ funny," he said darkly.

            The team roared with laughter, Paddy loudest of all, and as they bellowed their congatulations and cheered, a glint of silver caught their eyes; Dumbledore had arrived with the gigantic Quidditch Cup.

            The Gryffindors in the crowd renewed their screaming to a fever pitch as Dumbledore handed Charlie the enormous Cup with a murmured, "Congratulations, Mr. Weasley. I suppose that split lip came from walking into a door?" His sharp, light blue gaze regarded Charlie with knowing mirth.

            Charlie grinned; it no longer surprised him when Dumbledore seemed able to read minds.

            "Yes, sir," he said. "You know me. I have no coordination."

            "None whatsoever," Dumbledore agreed, shaking his hand, and Charlie could have sworn that there was a note of something like approval in the old man's voice. "Again, congratulations."

            "Thank you_, sir_," Charlie said, grinning. He turned around and with a hoarse yell the team lifted the gleaming Cup into the air to wild cheers.

            "You know," Mickey said musingly, so that only he could hear, "I almost feel bad about what I slipped into the Slytherins' pumpkin juice this morning."

            He stared at her.

            "You _didn't_."

            She raised an indignant eyebrow. Her eyes narrowed and flashed at him dangerously.

            And she grinned.

~  *  ~


End file.
